


An Alternate Theory of Worlds by Archmage Almaliriel Eruvarin

by MB_Westover



Series: The Rising of a Golden Sun - Passages from Clan Eruvarin [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Archmage Dragonborn, F/M, Gen, Mer Culture & Customs, Neloth being Neloth, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Twenty-Three Years Post-Main Skyrim Questline, Worldbuilding, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MB_Westover/pseuds/MB_Westover
Summary: “Teldryn?”He hums.“I’m going to strangle Neloth.” I state, turning my head to stare at the sky above.“Not ‘Master’ Neloth?” His tone is mocking and I furrow my brows before heaving myself up from the snow. It was deeper than I thought, coming up to my mid-thigh. Fresh snow too, with the way it compacted easily under weight.I pause.“I’ll strangle Neloth before I strangle you.”
Relationships: Female Altmer Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Teldryn Sero, Female Hawke/Sebastian Vael (Mentioned)
Series: The Rising of a Golden Sun - Passages from Clan Eruvarin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2180412
Comments: 22
Kudos: 113





	1. A Singular Oblivion Crisis but Instead it’s Just the Dragonborn’s Assumed Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Healing Tents](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101916) by [TheOneKrafter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter). 
  * Inspired by [Smith From Another Land](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101711) by [l8rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l8rose/pseuds/l8rose). 



The boat rocked as the men pulled it into the dock, a crew made up of Dunmer, Argonian, and Nord alike all working together to see that the boat did not jostle too harshly in shallow waters. It was a diverse crew, one that brought me pleasure to see, especially a crew from Windhelm, where _proper_ integration stung at the more conservative Nordic families. 

I breathed in, the cloth mask across my face doing it’s best in keeping out the worst of the ash-filled air. Raven Rock had changed little since I had last been here, a few new faces working the expanded docks. The lives of mer were long, with most content to stay in one location for a good few decades before moving onto somewhere new, if ever. 

Adril Arano stood proud on the docks, clad in fine, but simple clothes cut in a more obvious Dunmeri fashion than my first stop in Raven Rock. No doubt he was here to greet both me and my companion, though perhaps to leave more of a warning for the last time we were at Raven Rock we had left the colony a mess that First Councilor Morvayn still sent letters with sly complaints nestled in-between niceties. 

“Councilor Arano,” I greeted, taking his hand to step off the docks. He was considerably shorter than me, though it was hard to find someone who was taller than myself, unless they were Nords, Orcs, or Altmer. “It warms my heart to see you hale.” 

The Dunmer’s face didn’t waver from his unamused mask. “Lady Eruvarin. I was under the impression your visit would not be for another decade.”

I tried not to wince, Teldryn’s unamused snort from next to me did little to brighten the Councilor’s mood, only causing the mer’s brows to draw in closer to each other. 

“I have some business with Master Neloth. I’m here on behalf of the College of Winterhold.” 

Arano sniffed. “As long as whatever experiments the two of you cook up do not harm Raven Rock…”

I gave him a polite smile. “There will be no issue, Councilor.”

The Second Councilor took his leave, his stride as proud as ever as he disappeared behind the wall’s of Raven Rock. I gave a sigh beneath the mask, the exhaled air warm against my face as I turned my head up to Morrowind’s ever-gray sky. The Red Year was not kind to the subsequent decades following it. 

“I was under the assumption you were here for other reasons.” Teldryn says lowly, stepping off the boat and easily sidling up to me by my shoulder. 

“We both know it is easier to tell the Councilor what he expects to hear than the truth, _aure.”_ I reply easily, leading the way into the town proper. It is much the same as it was from my last visit, though there were the new additions of small children running around the market. The ash didn’t affect their lungs as it did mine however—the Dunmeri had adapted to the pollution of the air quite naturally—naturally about without facial covers. 

It made my heart ache.

Teldryn’s steady hand pushed me forward gently, a comforting presence in the turmoil of my own mind. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I say nothing to that, leading the both of us to the Retching Netch. Geldis would be a welcome face after all these years, if he still ran the inn. I didn’t doubt he did. The stubborn Dunmer would expand his own lifespan if it allowed him the ability to run the place longer. 

Pushing open the heavy doors, I was careful to wipe my shoes off onto the mat provided. Geldis had always been a stickler when it came to patrons tracking ash into his inn.

The entrance was still the same, the table Teldryn used to haunt being replaced by a stack of crates. There were new tapestries hung on the circular walls, dangling more like banners.

“This place is awfully familiar.” Teldryn drawled, prompting a snort from me. 

We descend into the inn proper, a female Dunmer busy scrubbing away at a table while a few customers took up some of the tables, all nursing their own drinks and meals. 

“Olvyniah!” The woman jumped, turning quickly to the source. “I need you to clean the rooms again, there’s ash all over!”

“Sorry, boss!” Olvyniah responded, snatching up her rag and rushing to wherever the brooms were kept. 

Teldryn moved to seat himself at one of the vacant tables, tilting his head in the direction of the barkeep. I sighed. 

“Geldis,” I greeted, the mer whirling around with wide eyes before his lips stretched into a grin. “It’s been awhile.”

“A while indeed!” Geldis exclaimed, setting down the jug of Sujamma before rushing around the counter to pull me into a tight embrace. “ I haven’t seen you in nigh over twenty-three years!” 

I gave a small chuckle, returning the hug as he pulled away. He is the same as ever, his high ponytail turning into a top-knot that holds back dark hair and his beard cleanly trimmed.

The grin he shoots me is one that makes me feel some guilt, for it is full of happiness and relief of seeing a friend you thought to be long-gone from your own life. I had not done well in keeping contact with Raven Rock, the place leaving too many bad memories and experiences that pained a younger me. 

“I am well, my friend. It warms my heart to have such an ebullient welcome.” I give him a small smile, the mer’s own only stretching before he ushers me into a seat at the bar. 

“The same as ever then! Come now, haven’t I asked you to simplify your words with a mere publican like me?” He laughs, making his way back around the counter and bending down to pull out a bottle. It’s unlike the local brews, holding more of an Altmeri design. “I found this in a shipwreck washed up on shore a few years ago, decided to hold some in case you came around again; lucky me that I didn’t waste it, eh?”

The guilt grows. 

“Is it Aldmeri Brandy?” I ask, drumming my fingers on the countertop to save the urge to apologize. Geldis was not one to take in apologies, whether they be genuine or not. 

“It was labelled ‘ _Pyandonea Wine_ ’ when I first got it, but the blasted ash must’ve caused the label to wither away,” He curses, dusting off the bottle with a scowl before popping the cork and bringing it up to his lips. “Smells sweet, but I’m told your people prefer that sort of thing.” 

I had little heart to inform him that Pyandonea was a _Maomer_ location and the wine was probably of such origin. I gave him a small smile, “‘Pour up’, is what I believe they say?”

Geldis laughed again, shaking his head as he procured two glasses for the both of us, the wine a curious pale blue in color. “It’ll never get old hearing you speak so plainly, my dear friend.”

I chuckled, taking a sip of the wine and finding myself pleasantly surprised as the taste was lighter than the smell, almost salty than sweet. It was an odd contrast, but one I knew my father would have enjoyed if he ignored the fact that it was Maomeri in origin. 

“What have you come to Solstheim for, my friend? Besides inviting Councilor Morvayn’s wrath, of course.” He winked over his drink, downing the wine as if it was a shot of Sujamma before pouring himself another cup. 

“I have business with Master Neloth as a representative from the College of Winterhold.” I reply lightly. My Archmage robes were tucked into my travelling pack, as the ash was a pain to wash or dust off of anything not made of chitin, bonemold, and most curiously, stalhrim. It was why I had opted to wear an old set of chitin armor which had seen more use propped up on a mannequin than anybody else. 

Geldis whistled. “Risking a visit with the mad Telvanni?”

I sighed. “He isn’t _mad_ , Geldis.”

The publican shrugged, refilling my glass with a little gesture. Most of Raven Rock were not fond of Neloth, as they were vassals of House Redoran. Tel Mithryn and Raven Rock existed in an uneasy truce where they ignored each other more often than not. 

“I’ve heard quite a few things about that mad mage, my friend.” Geldis leaned forward, red eyes darting over my shoulder as if Neloth himself were present before lowering his voice. “It’s said he used to kidnap Redoran Councilors’ daughters. Now I don’t know about you, but it seems to be a pattern with mad Telvanni mages.” 

I frown, pulling away from Geldis ever-so-slightly. “Master Neloth is an eccentric mer, I will admit, but such rumors are poisonous. I had expected _you_ would know better than putting stock into gossip.”

My friend sighs, leaning back to stand straight once again. “I know you are capable, I just worry.” 

I nod to him. “And for that I am thankful. Master Neloth, however, is a respected colleague of mine. He has given... _counsel_ regarding areas of magic I find myself unfamiliar with and has looked after my health when I dove into more _obscure_ branches.

Neloth was a dear friend as much as I cursed his name. He reminded me of my own grandmother in a way, her scathing tongue and tough approach not unlike his own. I enjoyed his company when it was possible and our letters (while many of them had been forgotten by the wizard as he focused on his own projects) held many interesting topics. Having a Master Telvanni wizard count among a ring of friends was not such a bad thing.

Besides...it was wiser keeping someone around when they knew what foray of obscure magic I dived into. 

_‘The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint insight drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Enquiry shapes the edge of thought. The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First—”_

Geldis peered at me, red eyes looking concerned. “Are you well? You’ve become a bit pale, my friend.”

I waved him off, a strained laugh leaving my lips that had the Dunmer drawing his eyebrows together in worry. A hand settled on my shoulder. Teldryn. 

“Geldis.” Teldryn greeted. “The same price for a room?”

The publican nodded, taking his eyes off me to give Teldryn a small smile. I ignored the way his eyes darted over here and there in concern. There was no reason for him to feel strongly over a friend who hadn’t visited in a little over two decades. 

“Of course.” 

Teldryn slid over the septims, ducking his head in a polite thanks before helping me up from my chair and leading me to a presumably empty room. The doors shut behind us as I all but collapsed into bed, not even the dust that puffed out from it bothering me as I shut my eyes in anxious relief. 

My companion’s steps were heavy as he made his way around the room, settling our stuff in as much as he could without outright unpacking everything. I had learned my lesson years and years and years ago as a youth first leaving Alinor with little more than a few packs and Ma’zrim (may Xarxes watch over her soul). 

“I’m sure a mere innkeep didn’t spook you so.” Teldryn begins, the sound his armor buckles coming undone somehow relaxing to me. His voice is clearer without his helmet.

“Publican. And no. He didn’t.”

Teldryn hums, his steps light before the bed dips and I am forced to shuffle myself to the other side where it is cooler. I sigh, muscles relaxing as he unbuckles the straps of my own armor and pries me out of the pieces as best as he can without disturbing me too much.

It’s silent between us (it usually is) as the weight of the light armor disappears from my person. I can hear Teldryn curse softly under his breath as he attempts to put the armor away neatly. Only the afternoon and we were getting ready to sleep. Lucia would be cross.

“How do you think the children are doing?” I ask, turning my head so my words don’t come out muffled from being pressed into the mattress. My eyes open, Teldryn’s lithe form a welcoming sight, stripped down to his tunic and trousers. 

“They are hardly children.” 

I huff. “They’ll always be children to us, _aure_.” 

He moves to prop a chair by the door to keep out unwanted guests. We had entirely too much coin and important items on us (me) to simply lose from a thief in the night. Not that said hypothetical thief would be successful in stealing from either Teldryn or myself. Light sleepers we were. 

“Of course. Their mere decades pale in comparison to the great mer.” He shoots me a small smirk and I frown. 

“I don’t talk like that.” 

He chuckles, settling back down into bed. A warm hand settles over my back, smoothing away any aches I had with just a touch. “‘Course not, dear.” 

I move closer, acting the little spoon though I hold a good two inches of height over him. He aquices easily enough, pulling me close so my head rests against his clothed chest, the line of tattoos on his face mimicked in pattern on his body. A sliver of dark skin revealed by a hole in the hip of his tunic is evidence enough.

I finger the hole, humming. “I’ll be sure to mend this soon.” 

Teldryn hums in response, his arms warm as they wrap around me. It is a comforting weight to be held so closely; to hear another’s heart beat in tune with mine.

We sleep for the rest of the day. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


I help Teldryn buckle the straps of his armor, pressing a chaste kiss on his cheek as he then helps me with mine. His hands are warm as always, Dunmeri heritage showing though with the fire that lurks beneath. It’s a trait I am envious of, my own Altmeri heritage giving the blessing of a deep magicka pool along with faster regeneration, but not resistance to any sort of element. 

“I still will never stop fearing when a dragon’s breath washes you in flame,” I all but sigh out the words, tracing gentle fingers over his scarred hands. “Fear grips me everytime.”

His hands catch my fingers, pressing a sweet kiss onto the tips. It’s a rare affectionate gesture from him and my heart melts with it. The smile on his lips is a rougish as ever though, leaning onto more of a smirk than a smile. 

“Seducing me so early?” I murmur, my own smile edging upon my lips.

Red eyes glimmer amusedly. “Why, I would never. How bold of you to accuse me, serah. Work and pleasure; never to mix.” 

I chuckle, giving in to the urge to press a kiss onto his lips he responds to sweetly. It’s a warm feeling, to be married to one who feels the same. It isn’t an emotion or feeling I thought I would ever feel whilst I lived in Alinor. 

We break the kiss, me, smiling at him warmly and Teldryn looking at me with such an impossibly soft look in his eyes that one would never expect of him to have. 

_How in love we are_ , I think, pressing a hand on his chestplate, right over where his heart would be. It grounds me, keeping me to the present. _He stays here, he still lives._

“We should head out before Neloth forgets we were to visit.” I say, not yet able to lose the small smile from leaving my face as I look up at him. 

It is still hard to think of the years we had spent together, of how much trials we faced before trying to fade into obscurity. Travelling had done much to give credence to the anonymity we craved, other provinces not knowing exactly who or what the Dragonborn was or looked like. 

His thumb brushes over my cheekbone, a tender motion that has me wanting to curl into him. 

“As my patron says, serah.” His eyes dance amusedly and I scoff without any heat before we are picking up our packs and heading out of the Retching Netch. Geldis isn’t manning the bar and instead the mer we saw yesterday who was presumably Drovas’s replacement is sweeping the constantly blown-in ash into a dustpan. She looks up as we pass her, red eyes curious.

I wrangle my hair into a tight braid before we exit, tucking it under a cowl before putting on my own mask and stepping out into Raven Rock proper. The blacksmith’s is quiet; the Mallory brothers were getting up there in age for human men, despite their Breton heritage. A life led with their trades was harder on the body than most, especially since they were not magick practitioners. 

My eyes sweep across the ash-covered square, noting a few more houses that had gone up, leading towards the torn-down remains of the Earth Stone. It was good to see that helping restore the ebony mines had brought life into what used to be a town falling onto extinction. 

I turn my head skywards, squinting at the ash falling steadily. It was lighter today and there was no breeze that whispered of an ash-storm to come later.

“Are we taking a boat or walking?” 

“I thought it would be nice to exercise our old bones a bit. Don’t you agree?” I tilt my head back to look at him, almost laughing at the dry gesture of him crossing his arms. 

“After you, serah.” 

I chuckle, nodding to a few guards as we made our way out of Raven Rock. The old farmhouse had been restored, guard patrols reaching out further than before. It seemed as if Raven Rock was due to expand more. 

The trip to Tel Mithryn was as uneventful as it could be on Solstheim. Burnt Spriggans avoided the land around Tel Mithryn like a plague, no doubt from Neloth’s subsequent capturing and experimenting on the creatures being the reason. 

I flicked my hand outwards, watching dispassionately as shards of ice plunged into the Ash Spawn, Teldryn rushing forward with a cry to effectively end the creature by plunging his blade into the heartstone. I jogged forward, plucking the stone from the ash and pocketing it. There was no need to have more of these running around than there should be.

“I was under the impression we cleared the island of such creatures.” I kick at the remains, a frown creasing my brows. It was a worry indeed if the Ash Spawn were still lingering around Solstheim after so long. I would have to question those in Raven Rock when I returned; Neloth would be little use in information gathering on current going-ons as the mer felt little need to leave his home. 

Sighing, we continued onward. The sea breeze was a welcoming feeling on the warm temperate of the island, no matter how far north we seemed to be. It was one of those odd things that had an exception, the climate of the island divided between the northern and southern sides of the island, nevermind that Solstheim was further north than Winterhold. 

Tel Mithryn was a welcome view as we drew closer. The giant fungi was as impressive as ever, though there seemed to be more growths peppering the circular courtyard I knew to lay within. Neloth did say that he had to oversee some changes as more came to Solstheim looking for work within the mines. 

“I will never get over my awe of the Telvanni,” Teldryn states. “Look what they’ve grown from the ash...it’s simply amazing.”

We stood there for a moment—the Sea of Ghosts a soft hush over the rumbling of the Red Mountain that lay miles and miles away as a silhouetted giant along the blurry coastline of Vvardenfall—admiring the work of the Telvanni. It spoke of a genius to create such housing to bend around them as they saw fit and a true touch with magic as they imbued the very veins of the plant with magicka. 

It was a wonderful piece of magick-work that never failed to take my breath away, no matter how lacking the architectural design may be. There was little you could detail with a mushroom of all things, but I found the winding roots and pale stems to be charming in its own way. Certainly interesting, with the way it seemed to compliment a rather desolate landscape. 

“I’ve always wondered why the Bosmeri don’t employ such a thing considering the Green Pact.” Teldryn says as we begin moving closer once again. His strides match mine easily, our light steps barely making a dent into the shifting dunes of ash that remind me of some twisted parody of Elsweyr. 

“They do. It’s a specialized ritual, growing buildings from trees.” I huff, saving myself from tripping over a washed up piece of driftwood buried under ash. 

Tel Mithryn only grows as we near, looming larger and larger until we stand in the great shadow of it all. Pale roots as thick as tree-trunks weave around the settlement, forming a protective wall of sorts. Banners of House Telvanni flap proudly in the wind, new additions with the wall. 

“Twenty-three years.” I breathe, looking at the new growths. It seems there are new mushroom-homes as well, which make me wonder who else Neloth had added into his household. He had mentioned taking on another apprentice along with adding a new mycologist after Elnyea Mothren had passed.

“Halt! State your business, outsider.” A guard in bonemold armor stood proudly, a mask covering his lower face from the harsher weather outside of Raven Rock. The town’s walls provided a well of protection from the wind and ash-storms that I don’t think it’s inhabitants truly knew.

“I am the Archmage of Winterhold,” I raise my two hands up, palm-out. A gesture common among mages to show they were friendly and not about to cast a spell. A gesture I had come used to using while traversing Skyrim. 

(Unfortunately, my friendly gesture was rarely reciprocated, especially in the wilds of Skyrim.)

“I come on personal business with Master Neloth.” I gesture between myself and Teldryn behind me, careful to keep my palms facing him, even if the action was awkward. “Myself and my husband.” 

The guard harrumphed, unimpressed. His red eyes surveyed the both of us, likely looking for any sort of reason to point out that we were lying so he could either turn us away or cut us down where we stood. 

“And the name of the Archmage?” The guard prompted.

“Almaliriel Eruvarin.” 

A brow raised, interest cooling over dark features. “Interesting name for an Altmer.”

“In honor of my maternal aunt-by-marriage, Hravani Velas. She recommended the name after Saint Almalexia.” I give a low bow. Behind me, I can hear Teldryn shift to presumably do the same. 

“Velas, you say? Of the Velas Clan?” His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, his eyes sceptical as they dance between the two of us. 

I give a brittle smile. “Of House Dres.” 

There is little to say of House Dres other than the more...ardent fervor they held for more traditional aspects of Dunmeri culture. It was no wonder that the Great House was barely managing to stay together, given the aggression by their Argonian neighbors to the south and the Red Year decimating many of their plantations. 

It is not a proud relation I hold, given the friendly bonds I hold with a good handful of Argonians, but there is little I could say on the matter as an Altmer. Many races were not as willing to be as friendly since the Great War. 

“And you?” He gestures to my husband, eyes narrowed at the ebony sword strapped to his hip. 

“Teldryn Sero.” 

The guard makes a face, eyeing the two of us eith the right amount of suspicion that has me wondering if I would have to simply spell the guard and get on with it just to see Neloth. Honestly… the mer should’ve at least informed Drovas or Talvas that we were dropping by so his household could expect us. 

The guard’s companion huffs, arms crossing in front of them. “Just let them through Vedlos. It isn’t as if Master Neloth couldn’t handle them himself if they are any sort of trouble.” 

Vedlos, the guard, whips his head to his companion. “Sarnas—“

“You two to right on through. Master Neloth will deal with you.” The other guard interrupts once again, moving to the side so we could pass. 

I give the other guard a gracious nod, crinkling my eyes in a pleased sort of smile since my mouth is covered. “I thank you.” 

The guard snorts. “No problem, serah.”

The two guards devolve into a low argument full of hissing and the shift of frustrated feet upon the ash-laden ground that has one of my ears twitching amusedly. 

I share a glance with Teldryn, amusement sparkling in his own eyes as we near the largest mushroom of the rest. There’s no warding at the door, the peculiar fungi-wood feeling cool to the touch as the feeling of magicka begins to fill the very air. 

“The Telvanni are much too fond of these for the apathetic wizards they portray.” I state, stepping carefully onto the glow of magic before the empty-swoop feeling I have come to associate with levitation magic takes hold. 

I try to center my weight as best as I can floating in the air, so as to land with both feet firmly planted onto the landing deck Neloth graciously provides for guests. The cantankerous Dunmer was of the opinion that guests should _catch_ themselves with their magick. 

“Oh! Mistress Eruvarin!” Talvas gives a surprised blink from near the enchanting table, his arms laden with scrolls and whatnot. “I wasn’t aware you were visiting.” 

I quickly step off the deck, Teldryn cursing behind me as he stumbles to catch himself with a grumble. My hands reach up to pull off my mask, a friendly smile in place as I step forward to take a few scrolls from the apprentice’s hold. “Here, let me help you with this.” 

I take a few scrolls, eyeing the more open ones with barely-concealed curiosity at the hint of a diagram on one of them. It seemed that Neloth was continuing his more esoteric research then.

“Master Neloth should be with the Spriggans,” Talvas says as he dumps the scrolls onto one of the many desks. “He says he’s on the edge of a discovery so I've done my best to be as helpful as I can!”

The mer puffs up at this declaration, a proud little smile on his own face. He has come far from the frustrated wizard’s apprentice I had known him as, Neloth finally taking my barbed hints to at least teach the poor boy _something_. He was no Ildari Sarothril, for the way Neloth both raged and mourned his previous apprentice, but he was a talented youth with a dab hand at Conjuration.

“I've offered before, but I would gladly take you on as my own apprentice.” I offer graciously.

His cheeks flush a darker colour, eyes darting behind me to presumably look at Teldryn before wetting his lips. “I-I’m not, I, uh.” 

I laugh, clapping a hand on his shoulder before shaking my head. “Don’t worry about it, Talvas. Master Neloth is a fine wizard.” 

The apprentice mutters something under his breath but gathers himself with a breath, straightening his shoulders and gesturing with his head to the experiment room. 

“Master Neloth is in there, if-if you were wondering. I promised Mreyla I would deliver some void salts…” He breaks off to a murmur, head ducked low in a way I recognize from more studious students caught up in their own work. I give a small smile at his retreating back, meeting Teldryn’s helmeted gaze with raised brows. 

“Well?” I prompt, hands on my hips.

He shrugs. 

“Honestly,” I sigh. “I didn’t judge the mer who looked like an overgrown chaurus when I looked to hire, did I?” 

“Terrible choice, serah. Should’ve taken a big, burly, Nord.” His voice is inexplicably dry, prompting a snicker from me as I make my way over to the experiment room. 

“Stand there and don’t touch anything.” I order off-handedly over my shoulder.

“I’ll be here.” 

There’s a noticeable change in the air as I near the experiments room, magick more charged than before. It’s understandable, given what Neloth gets up to when in his free-time. I let my hand trail along one of the sporus walls, they practically shiver in delight at the touch. How interesting. _I wonder if the house gains sentience with the Telvanni, years upon years of magickal output was sure to have effects of some sort, just like—_

Neloth is hunched over something in the corner, mumbling wildly. I peer around the room, noting that nothing much has changed other than the table being swapped out for something newer and taller. Less stains on it too. 

There’s a Burnt Spriggan watching me warily from the cage it’s in. I eyed it, noting the more washed-out look of this one than its contemporaries with clinical ease. It’s easier to think of the research that can come about of such reclusive and aggressive creatures despite the whole immorality of it all. That, and trying to stop Neloth from _anything_ was like having a fireball to the face for a response. 

The Spriggan hissed—or hissed as much as it could, bound and stuck in a magickally-restraining cage that flared with runes and wards the moment it moved—the lack of the creature’s own magic had seen to lose it’s glow. Whatever Neloth had been doing to the poor thing had caused it to warp into a more natural form, looking more like a tree than anything. 

“Don’t tease the thing,” Neloth snaps from his spot in the corner. “Whatever emotional reaction is has can ruin my notes.”

I raise a brow. “Apologies.” 

The Telvanni snorts, turning to me with his signature unimpressed look. His lips purse and he eyes me from head to toe. “You look terrible.” 

I tilt my head towards him dryly. “Polite as ever.”

“Bah! You and your manners. You’re one to speak, married to a mercenary of all things.” He waves a dark hand, eyes shining in fond amusement despite the bite to his words. He had softened considerably after my stint here in Solstheim, letters doing their best to break the thaw completely until a knowledgeable colleague became a friend.

He was as kind to me as he ever would be to another person. Neloth was of the sort that preferred to be alone to his own work, as many of his Great House were, but I supposed he didn’t mind the company if he added more to his household. He was just... _abrasive_. More people minded Neloth, than Neloth minded people.

“Can I not visit a colleague?” 

“Yes, yes, you’re the Archmage of Winterhold. Why you flaunt that title is beyond me, that _College_ is little more than a few rocks holding onto the vestiges of something that was once great.” The last sentence is muttered, tone sour as he turns back to whatever is in the small cage and slaps a hand on it. The room seems to burst with magicka for a moment, the hairs on my skin rising in alarm before the moment ends and Neloth is preening where he stands. 

“A few of your kinsmen attend—”

“Shameful.”

“—and they find it quite enlightening.” I ignore his interruption, folding my hands in front of me. “Now are we to sit ourselves and have tea fetched like proper mer, or are we to stand in this room while your experiment tries to eviscerate me from behind their bars.”

The Spriggan hisses, runes glowing warningly on the bars of the cage before it quiets. It’s a pitiful thing that has me wanting to do nothing more than end it of its suffering, but alas, this is the work of another and as a mage I have little to say when it comes to learning, bar necromancy. Most mer can agree that necromancy is wrong, despite the number of notorious lichs that seem to come from our race. 

Neloth lazily waves a hand as he breezes past, the Spriggan flaring up once again in defensive anger before I follow him out of the room. A door rolls into place, much like the one that locked the staff enchanter room. 

“Caniphre is convinced that my research is cruelty. I’ve had to grow a door-lock to keep her from freeing the damn creature.” Neloth says at my questioning look. 

“Caniphre?” It’s not a name I’m familiar with and by the way the older wizard seems to age a few years at the name, they are someone who troubles the mer dearly.

“My... _niece_.” He bites the word out as if it pains him to admit he has some sort of familial tether to others. Knowing Neloth, it probably does.

“I wasn’t aware you had a niece.” I say, clearing a small table as Teldryn wanders over to take the books from hand and dump it on a random desk. Hopefully they weren’t important. 

“Yes, well, I wish I didn’t.” He settles into the chair across from me, snapping his fingers in rapid succession. “Varona! No...wait, she’s dead.”

I snorted. His previous steward before Drovas had been dead for the last twenty-three years, but of course the mer still had trouble remembering. 

“Rulra! Drovas!” Neloth bellows, my ears twitching at the yell. Teldryn gives a deep sigh, plopping down a chair he had no doubt taken from another spot in the tower before seating himself next to me. 

There’s a crash of something before a small form is darting out from one of the rooms. Neloth’s unused one by the looks of it. I raise my brows as the mer lifts their head to reveal _brown_ skin instead of the customary black or gray from those on Solstheim. What was a Bosmer doing serving a Telvanni wizard? There was a story there. 

“Yes, Master Neloth!” The Bosmer all but squeaked, their eyes curiously more round than most of our kind. Human-blooded, perhaps? “Canis root, right?”

Neloth hums, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table, “Yes, yes, canis root. Don’t let Ulves water it down.”

“Frost mirriam for me, please.” I interject before the girl can dart. She has that flighty look around her, big brown eyes darting nervously from myself, to the Telvanni, and finally Teldryn. She gives a squeak, nodding rapidly before practically launching herself off the bannister to the levitation enchantment blow.

“A Bosmer?” I turn my head to Neloth, hearing the girl slam the door shut behind her. 

“Yes. I needed someone around here with enough knowledge with herbology to make some _proper_ tea. Drovas is utterly helpless, the lump.” 

Hiring another steward just for tea? Well, it certainly was something the mer was prone to do. It was better to at least hear that poor Drovas had someone to share his duties with, for the tower looked much cleaner than the last time I had been here. Varona had certainly done her best keeping the place as neat as she could when she still lived, but Drovas didn’t have that cleaning touch and Talvas was entirely too absorbed in pleasing Neloth to clean when he wasn’t trying to gather his Master’s favor. 

“So, a niece?” It’s hard to imagine Neloth actually having a family somewhere. Even though it wasn’t logical, the mer was someone who had just...existed in my mind. He was certainly of the sort to claim he came to being by pure willpower and talent alone. 

“Yes,” He says, a bitter note clinging to the single word. “My sister’s offspring. I had offered to take her in polite jest, but the blasted woman thought I was serious. The girl has little talent in magick and it’s a shame to count her among the ranks of Telvanni, not to mention sharing ancestry with the chit.”

I blink. I had always known Neloth to be of the callous, but to speak ill of a kinsmen? I sigh, leaning back in my chair in a way that my mother would’ve zapped me for. She was always one for propriety, climbing the ranks of Altmeri society with more judgement clapped onto her than most due to her more common birth. 

“Surely you jest? She cannot be that untalented, magick runs in the blood of mer.” Magick ran in our very veins, gifted to us by Syrabane, who was gifted by Magnus himself. It was a teaching that was drilled into every Altmeri child the moment they could coax magic out of them.

“I do not jest of her lack of talent. It’s a stain on my lineage.” Neloth grumbles, tugging on his beard agitatedly. This was a topic that bothered him greatly, for the mer was usually the very picture of cool composure.

I’m saved from coming up with a tactful response as the Bosmer steward returns, gracefully managing to hold the tray with two different teapots balanced on it as she lands on the out-hanging deck. She looks frazzled with nerves, her eyes going even wider as they make contact with my own. I try to give a small, comforting smile, but that seems to send the girl into further anxiety.

I sigh.

“Canis root tea as you said, Master Neloth!” She squeaks, setting down the tray with smooth hands despite her edgy demeanor. “And frost mirriam too, of course.”

She pours the teas with an expert hand, practically flying out of her spot as Teldryn speaks up.

“Canis root for myself as well, serah.”

“Of-of-of course!” Her face flushes all the way to the tips of her ears, handing Teldryn his own cup before bowing out with the tray. 

“Flighty thing.” I comment, watching her trip over the threshold of the door leading elsewhere. 

“Mm, yes. An annoying trait but she is the only one on this blasted island that makes anything decently resembling tea.” Neloth turns his red eyes to me as he takes a deep drink of his tea. “You are aware I’ve summoned you here not for idle chit-chat.”

I nod, sipping at my own drink. A minty feeling fills my mouth at the taste, the frost mirriam a welcome balm that is delightfully refreshing. It was a common tea, but a classic one as well that graced even the halls of my ancestral home in Alinor. 

“Of course. I wouldn’t assume such a note would be anything but. You aren’t one for idle pleasures.” I try to not let the wry smile on my lips show as the wizard across from me practically preens at the sly praise. 

“Praise that is due is awarded, you Altmeri _are_ talented in that verbal trade. Nevertheless,” He sets down his cup, steam dragging an idle pattern from the liquid. “I’ve come to believe that there is a positive link with heart stones and the Heart of Lorkhan.”

The tower seems to still, my heart a steady thud in my chest as waves crash in my ears. I stare at him with wide eyes, unable to fully process the words he just said. Beside me, Teldryn has gone still from shuffling, the two of us focused fully on Neloth.

“Truly?” My words come out as a whisper, a dying hush that one would have to strain to hear, even for us mer. 

“The Nerevarine has done more for Nirn than most realize,” Neloth begins, leaning forward low enough that his beard tickles the table. “But I have come to the conclusion that heart stones hold some of—”

“Some of that power.”I finish, mind racing with the possibilities. Immortality, surely, along with untold power. The very heart of a god who had sundered a whole race in his own tricks, leaving them to splinter and war among each other as if they were not kin. 

“How are you sure?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

He scoffs, leaning back from the table with an almost offended look. “Don’t be daft. I’ve done countless research and experimentation on heart stones to finally lay an actual theory with valid evidence. The Ash Spawn? An able power source? The raw magic it leaks? _Spurting from the Red Mountain?”_

My teeth clack together, hands clenched around my cup so tightly that it might shatter in my very hands. It’s a sound theory, one that would have magickal researchers and scholars scrambling to get any sort of sample of a heart stone.

“The Aldmeri Dominion.” My heart sinks at the thoughts running through my head. It would be a breakthrough, an explanation of why Morrowind has become so corrupted and wild—

“What about them?”

“Don’t be daft,” I parrot, Neloth practically bristling in his seat at his own words thrown back at him. “They crave immortality. _True_ immortality. This theory would bring you more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I am a _Master_ Telvanni—”

“ _Neloth_ .” He pauses, looking startled at my informality. I was not one to drop honorifics or titles without cause, especially with one who was considered a social peer in mer standing. “They will come for you. They will war for your research, your information, they will take Great House Telvanni and _burn it to the ground—”_

A hand settles on my shoulder, startling me from my words. It’s with startling clarity that I realize the frog in my throat and how my person shakes. My hands burn, the cup shattered into shards with ceramic digging into the skin of my palms. 

“I-I apologize for my misconduct.” The words are hollow, wooden, an automatic barrier to fall back on ingrained from a childhood of habit. 

Neloth stares at me with wide eyes, as if he has never seen me before. I am sure there is a haunted look on my own face, downcast eyes that speak of too much, that _know of too much._

“I-” I breathe, collecting my thoughts and exhaling the lump in my throat that chokes me with every breath. Teldryn’s hand is an assuring weight, reminding me that there is someone—if there wasn’t anyone that there was at least _someone_ who would walk into Oblivion with me as long as it meant coming out hand-in-hand. 

“You are a _friend_ , Neloth.” I emphasize the word, staring at my hands as if I had never seen them before. Blood dribbles down from the cuts, a stinging sensation quickly joining in song with the burning one from the tea. It reminds me of my mortality. Of _mer_ mortality. “This... _research_...this cannot be allowed to leave Tel Mithryn. It cannot leave your tower. I know the atrocities committed by my brethren, I know what they are capable of.”

“Still, you cannot believe that they would—”

“They will. They want to and they will. My people already froth over Divayth Fyr. A Dunmer of that magical prowess and breeding, able to live four times the age of our elders? We are wary of our ancestors, rightly so, and a mer living long enough to see the corruption of Chimer to Dunmer? To _live_ as a Chimer and turn into a Dunmer?” I shake my head, my eyes solemn as I meet Neloth’s own. “Don’t be naive.”

An awkward silence settles over us then, Teldryn’s hand sliding down from my shoulder as he stands to tug on my arm so I face him. He removes his gloves, nimble fingers quickly making word of pulling out the shards of the cup while I watch blankly. 

It was a dangerous theory, but _oh-so_ tempting. I had allowed the lure of immortality to call to me—as many mer do for agelessness was made for our bodies before Lorkhan had ripped it away—when faced with Lord Harkon. It was not something I could allow again. 

“Needless to say, I still have not shared the details of _why_ I summoned you post-haste.” Neloth begins, looking distinctly more uncomfortable than I have ever seen him before. 

Teldryn shifts my hand in his own to work out some of the smaller shards, the blood on my skin beginning to stick uncomfortably. I feel weary at the Telvanni’s words, whatever energy I had sucked out by Neloth’s shocking exclamation. 

“Go ahead,” I say to Neloth before switching my attention to my husband, hissing through my teeth as ceramic cuts even deeper into my palm. “Grab the tweezers in my bag.” 

My companion does so silently, moving to dig through my rucksack before I turn a tired gaze onto my friend. A troublesome friend, but a friend nonetheless. _May my ancestors guide me through troublesome relationships,_ I think sardonically. There was little I could do now that I was _attached_ to the blasted mer. 

“I’ve been intending to test a theory upon heart stones,” He continues on despite my heavy look. How determined to give me grief, this mer was. “Along with the relationship between immortality and mer. As you know—”

“I am aware of our history, Master Neloth.” I sigh, my senses telling me that I should thank him for his invitation but decline whatever he was about to ask of me before throwing myself down the levitation enchantment and booking it right back to Skyrim. Lucia would appreciate the visit. She was such a good girl compared to the rest of my terror spawn. 

Neloth sniffs but doesn’t give a rebuttal, practically confirming my thoughts of me looking like an absolute mess just at the mention of possible immortality available _not_ through true vampirism. 

“Well. I have a test subject in the barracks and I would like your help conducting said test. You are the most _competent_ colleague I can call on such short notice and there is _no chance_ of me even allowing any of my kinsmen to get wind of my research after your little outburst.” 

_There it was._

I close my eyes, willing the oncoming headache to go away. There was too much to unpack in that alone and I didn’t want to get into an argument with the mer over morality because _what the fuck does he mean he has a test subject in the barracks._

“Master Neloth…” I sigh, but he seems to take that as an affirmative and all-but leaps from his chair with a spryness I wouldn’t expect from one who spends a sedentary life by doing exclusively only research. The man got an absolute kick out of sending people to do his dirty work for him.

“Perfect. Now heal that thing up, I don’t want you dribbling your blood everywhere, you can accidentally begin a blood magic ritual that way, it’s happened before.” 

I squeeze my eyes shut, resisting the urge to ask just what he was doing with ritualized blood magic before explosively exhaling. The reason why I hadn’t personally visited the mer in so long despite looking upon him fondly is becoming startling clear as he makes his exit down the levitation enchantment. 

“I trust none of this will ever leave us?” 

Teldryn doesn’t look at me but his hands flicker with rudimentary healing magic that has me sighing in relief at the warm sensation. Restoration magick was one of the most invasive, pushing your own magick to someone else’s latent energy to help pull whatever needed back together. It was a hard branch of magick to learn, being the reason why Healers were so valued in Altmeri society.

“You pay me enough, serah.” His hands brush against mine for an extra moment, a moment that counts as an affectionate gesture before he is pulling away and grabbing my rucksack to carry. “Let’s hurry before the Telvanni manages to open an Oblivion Gate or the like?”

I sigh. “Of course.”

* * *

_Nothing ever goes to plan when you’re the Dragonborn._

I can feel the snow seeping into whatever small crevices not covered by my armor, tugging at my Altmeri constitution oh-so daringly as if it was mocking the high illness-resistance provided by whatever divine heritage passed down through my ancestors. 

I turn my head to my side, catching the profile of Teldryn’s helmet as he too looks skyward. There's snow instead of ash.

“Teldryn?” 

He hums. 

“I’m going to strangle Neloth.” I state, turning my head to stare at the sky above. 

“Not ‘Master’ Neloth?” His tone is mocking and I furrow my brows before heaving myself up from the snow. It was deeper than I thought, coming up to my mid-thigh. Fresh snow too, with the way it compacted easily under weight. 

I pause.

“I’ll strangle Neloth before I strangle you,” My hands grab his, pulling him out of the snow and dusting whatever powered onto his chitin armor. 

He tilts his head towards me in a silent question, my own deadpan meeting his helmeted face before gesturing explosively to the _massive hole in the sky._

“You just had to say Oblivion Gate!” I all-but screech, decorum flying out of the window before my husband then turns his gaze up at the green swirling mass. Dread pools in my gut because I already know that I’m going to be saddled with fixing this shit because the closest thing to heroes left is myself and whispers of the Nerevarine in Akavir.

The only people who closed Oblivion Gates with relative success were the Vestige and the Hero of Kvatch, the both of whom were dead. The Nerevarine was sure as hell not going to return to Tamriel, given that they were probably dead as well because, _Akavir_.

The swirling mass above, of course, doesn’t care for anyone’s panic and continues to have the silhouetted figures of Dremora practically fall from it’s gaping maw. I never wished harder than in that moment for the Argonians of the Black Marsh to suddenly pop up and lend a hand. They would know what to do with a literal hole into Oblivion, for Auri-El’s sake _they invaded Oblivion right back._

“This is all your fault and I want an annulment.” I hiss, crossing my arms to give a semblance of warmth to my Altmeri-ass because I’m from a place called the _Summerset Isles_ to men. I was out of my damn mind, choosing to study in _Skyrim_ of all places. I could’ve moved on and gone over to Morrowind, but _no_ , I wanted to gawk at the old ruins and learn more ice magic because where else was a better place for ice magic than _Skyrim?_

I’m aware that the laughter that spills out of me is more hysterical than anything because Teldryn is already scooping me into his arms like a dutiful husband, murmuring a string of words in Dunmeri that I can’t understand because mer languages are infuriatingly complicated if you weren’t a native speaker. 

“You don’t mean that and we both know it.” His hands rest at the curve of my back, a comforting weight despite the tears that are dribbling down my face. Gods, I feel like a child. 

“It’s still your fault.” 

“I know.” His tone is soothing and there goes another round of tears that sting my face because _ow_ , we obviously were displaced to the other side of the island if it’s this cold. “I’m sorry for causing more trouble for you.”

“I don’t want to fight Dremora and Oblivion-knows-what.” I mutter petulantly, wiping away at my stinging tears with my hands. Teldryn chuffs a laugh and I glare at him to shut up before turning my head back up to the eerily green Oblivion Gate.

“You are _so_ lucky I managed to get Neloth to put an extendable enchantment on my bag or else we would be _fucked_.” I begin to unbuckle the straps of my chitin armor. There would be no use in wearing it when I had only put it on because of the resistance to the Red Mountain’s endless ash. 

Teldryn, bless his heart despite me blaming a literal hole in the sky not moments before, helps me undress in the freezing cold before passing me my Archmage robes that are laden with warming runes to keep off the cold in Winterhold. Gloves go on next, horker leather reliable in keeping in warmth and keeping out moisture. I quickly wrap my boots up, finishing off the final wrap with a lace. 

I wrangle my hair into it’s usual bun, wavy hair falling to frame the sides of my face before I share a look with my companion. We stare at each other for a moment and without words, we take-off, leaping and bounding over the snowy ground, heading straight to the center. 

The air is cold, crisp, and dizzying only in a way that meant we were on higher elevation. Trees whip around me, Teldryn close on my heels as we crest a cliff-end that has me gaping in silent horror.

“Teldryn?” I whisper, eyes wide at the scene below. 

“Yes, wife?” His term of affection doesn’t shake me from the slowly sinking feeling that only gets deeper, my hands clenching to keep me from magically exploding outwards.

“I don’t think we are in Nirn.” 

He peers over my shoulder, looking down at the torn-up building and burning fires. The smell of burning bodies is strong, though the stark realization of _what the fuck is going on_ is keeping me from retching. 

“The architecture looks wrong, blown up as it is.” I murmur, eyes flickering across the dots of moving troops and civilians that scramble around the wreckage. 

Teldryn shifts, his silence confirming my own thoughts with a dread. His eyes are better than mine and while he isn’t as well-traveled, he seen had taken great pleasure in the pictures I have collected across Tamriel in my own travels.

I give a weak laugh, the sound hollow to my own ears before tears once again build up in my eyes before I am all but hunched over, crying while hysterical laughter once again makes itself known. I hadn’t felt like this in a long time, since _well…_

Since my world flipped. Since I found out I had the soul of a dragon. 

_“Fuck_.” I breathe between pitiful laughs and gasps of air. 

“How eloquent you are, my dear.” Teldryn says, the concern in his voice being immediately backseated by his comment that has me launching into a new wave of hysterics. How eloquent, how eloquent, _indeed_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written on my iphone6s at 2 in the goddamn morning


	2. VARRIC I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1.5 | Varric's POV

Varric doesn’t know what to make of the prisoner, other than the fact that Merrill would love to hear about a Dalish elf being the center of disaster, much like she was when Hawke decided to step into Kirkwall. 

The elf is moody, shooting icy glares at anybody who looks at him twice, practically bristling when called upon. He isn’t the ideal main character, but Varric isn’t one to let a potential story pass him up when called upon. It would be simply tragic.

“You’re Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?” Solas comments, eyes curious as they look upon the other elf. _Astute that one,_ Varric thinks, looking upon the Dalish’s facial tattoos with a dry interest. _June? No, Dirthamen? There’s an arrow pattern, so Andruil?_ Merrill tried to teach the gang what each tattoo meant and which Elvhen God it honored, but most of the lesson went over their heads. Except Carver, of course, whipped that one. 

The Dalish scowls, blue eyes dark as they shift to look at Solas. “What do you know of the Dalish?”

What was with mysterious male elves and being broody? Chuckles was certainly living up to his dry name and actual Broody was up in Tevinter hunting down slavers he last heard. The man was looking to give Hawke a heart-attack, that one. 

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and have crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.” 

The mark flares, an agitated look on the prisoner’s face. The elf really needed to introduce himself, he had all but side-stepped proper courtesy, but most Dalish were secular people who barely trusted each other when not having their Thedas-wide clan meetings. What did Daisy call them again?

“Then you know us well enough to be wary.” Dalish all-but bites out, turning to look stubbornly ahead. An awkward silence descends upon the group and Varric fakes a cough to try and not laugh at the sour look on Chuckles’s face because he was sure to get a fireball in return. 

“Well enough to be suspicious.” The apostate’s face flares with irritation, ears flicking as he turned to look back at the valley below. 

Varric sighs, feeling like a chastising matron catching two children squabble over something petty, “Can’t you elves just play nice for once?”

The wind howls, pushing freezing air across the backs of the party as they make their way up an incline. Cassandra is glaring at him, judging by the way his senses are firing off, as she takes up the rear because she didn’t trust him or the prisoner to run off. Honestly, looking at the build of the prisoner, the elf can take off whenever he wishes and they would be helpless in chasing after him. He has the build of a runner. 

“ _So…_ ” Varri begins, turning his head to look at the eerie Breach above. And he thought he’s seen fucked up. This has to easily trump anything Hawke and co. got up to back in the day. “ _Are_ you innocent?”

“I don’t remember what happened.” 

He nods, eyes trailing back to the Dalish as the elf practically skips across the snow. He’s always been jealous of that, the way elves seem to just naturally skim over any sort of terrain, but he would take natural lyrium-resistance and the surety of not being able to turn into an Abomination.

(He ignores how his heart squeezes at the thought.)

“That’ll get you every time,” He sighs. If only more people had the genius of one like him. “Should’ve spun a story.” 

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise behind them, prompting his lips to curl into a small smile. “That’s what _you_ would’ve done.” 

Varric shrugs, Bianca a comforting weight on his back as he slings it back to his hold at the sound of fighting some thirty yards ahead. “It’s more believable and less prone to result in premature execution.”

They crest the stairs, Solas almost slipping on a particularly icy patch but catching himself with his staff, grumbling. 

“Fourteen!” Is called out in an accent Varric is sure he’s never heard before. It makes his eyebrows raise, turning his head to look at the Seeker who rushes forward to the unfamiliar voices. 

“It’s not a race, _aure_ .” Comes a reply, the voice melodic compared to the dry tone of their companion. The accent on that one is definitely highborn, the words pronounced only in ways he’s heard from Orleasian nobility. _High_ nobility. It instantly piques his curiosity. 

Still, that doesn’t mean he expects an unnaturally tall woman—no, elf, she’s definitely an elf with those ears—with pale _gold_ skin and a man whose armor looks to be made out of some weird material. Probably a giant bug. It looked like the plates of a centipede. 

“Holy shit.” 

The duo don’t register their group, moving in tandem to take down demons with little difficulty. He can hear Solas’s breath hitch at the display of magic from the golden elf, glyphs and bolts of magic being laid and cast with little effort. It’s an impressive display.

“Twenty-seven.” The bug-man declares, flicking his dark sword and tilting his head to his companion in a way Varric registers to be something along the lines of teasing. 

The elf-woman sighs. “Teldryn.”

Well, not a man then. Another elf, judging by the name. Varric is sure his eyebrows are to his hairline at this point.

“Halt!” Cassandra barks, rushing forward like the gallant knight she is with her shield firmly in front of the group. That woman has _balls_. He wonders if all Seekers go through training to make them as effective as the Seeker, her frame taut as she looks upon the alien newcomers. 

The woman turns to them then, her head jerking as if just noticing the little audience they had gathered. She's definitely tall, probably as tall as the few Qunari women he’s seen when they were stationed in Kirkwall. Her hair is a dusky-rose color that whips around her pale gold face in the mountainous wind. She’s pretty, if one could get over the almost alien features she has.

His hand itches. He could already see the words to put on paper to describe her and her mysterious companion. 

_‘The wind howled as if it knew there were two strangers on it’s mountain-top. Sun-kissed, quite literally with golden skin that shines like the palest of suns. She’s beautiful, but there is a harshness to her defined by a jagged scar that only adds to her mystique, one pale eye—blinded—contrasting the warm whiskey of another. Exotic but familiar, full lips that quirk downwards into a plain look. Her chin is pointed, curving up to a sharp jawline and elegantly arched cheekbones seem to make her eyes look all the more noticeable. There’s a quiet air around her, perhaps by the waves of hair that curl softly around her face despite the power that radiates from her form._

_Her companion is just a mysterious, an unspoken name, armor that seems to be a trophy of some sort with danger practically exuding from his hunter-like form. This one knows how to fight. There’s a story there, of an in-between of how two strangers became companions, as lurking differences all-but bubbles underneath.’_

_Maker,_ he needed something to write with now or he would lose the potential to a best-seller. 

The woman tilts her head, lips pursing as her mis-matched eyes look over their party. He wants to know about her. He knows an interesting person when he sees one, and a tall elf with skin like gold, dangerous proficiency with magic, and scar that ran jagged one one side of her face from an injury that blinded one eye practically _screams_ main character vibes. 

“Greetings,” Mystery-elf begins, her hands held palm-out in a surrender-like gesture. Cassandra only tenses at the show of open palms from one so easily using magic like it was nothing. “I come in peace and in good-will. I mean no harm to you or your companions.”

Oh. _Oh_ . _Oh Maker_ , she talks just like Choir-Boy. Either she was _somehow_ highborn or raised by a noble. He put his bets on the latter, though. Elves weren't exactly living it up in the Alienage as it were, and she looked like an oddity enough that there would be some noble out there who would keep her around at least as an interesting specimen. His publisher would burst if they could see her right now. 

“I don’t take to trusting strange mages, _mage._ ” Cassandra spits, dark eyes narrowed dangerously. 

The elf’s face doesn’t move, but her companion does, stepping up just behind her shoulder, his hands clenched tight around his sword-hilt. Varric recognizes the movement for what it is, stepping forward before the Seeker could get her face blown off. 

“What she means to say is ‘thanks for clearing the path,’” He gives a smile, making eye-contact with the elf-woman. Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. “Would you like to join us?”

_Be friendly to the mysterious and nice stabby people, Seeker,_ Varric thinks, watching Cassandra tense as the elf nods. 

“I would be honored to join you all and lend my hand,” The elf gestures to her armored companion at her shoulder. “This is my husband, Teldryn Sero. I am Almaliriel Eruvarin.”

Strange names, strange people. 

“Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?” Varric quips.

She bows her head, a small polite smile resting on golden features. “Alma will suffice.” 

With that, they march on, Cassandra shooting the two suspicious glares as Alma and Teldryn settle on the edges of their party. Solas looks more intrigued than anything, shooting surreptitious glances to the two newcomers when he isn’t watching his feet. 

There’s a sharp inhale from Dalish and Varric turns to see what caught the elf’s attention. He exhales sharply, the smell of burning flesh causing his stomach to roll. 

“Let’s keep moving.” Cassandra says musteringly, forging on ahead as the rest try to pull their gazes from the turned-over burning wagon. Two corpses hug close one child-sized corpse. 

He trails his gaze up to the swirling sky, a deep frown tugging at his lips. _Maker-damnit, Anders._

“Another Gate!” Alma calls, looking over her shoulder to the rest of the party. Varric furrows his brows, looking at the rift quizzically before the two newcomers are throwing themselves in with the soldiers. 

“We must seal it, quickly!” Solas is spinning his staff, the cool cover of a barrier sliding over Varric’s skin as he draws Bianca.

Dalish is darting forward, twin knives raised as he leaps down onto a twisted demon with wild abandon. He’d have to come up with a new nickname for that one, Daisy wouldn’t like it if he was calling the abrasive elf ‘Dalish’, the kid was a menace.

“They keep coming!” A soldier calls, desperately blocking a shade with a shaky parry. They’d been here awhile then, fatigue showing on each and every one of the soldiers’ forms. “Help us!” 

“Hurry!” Solas barks as the shades and wraiths disperse into freckles fragments of green. It would be a pretty sight if it wasn’t some sort of Fade bullshit. “Close the rift!”

Dalish is throwing down a knife, sharp features twisted into a snarl as he raises a hand to connect the crackling mark to the rift. Magic permeates the air, even charged against his natural Dwarven resistance to magic as green lights up his view. 

“The rift is gone! Open the gates!” 

“Right away, Lady Cassandra!” 

Alma turns her gaze to Dalish, her one amber eye assessing on the smaller elf before they stare at the mark. “Whatever magic you performed was well-done.” 

Dalish shifts, looking uncomfortable with the strange elf’s attention. He glances at her armored companion, then turns to look at the tall elf with an awkward air around him. How curious.

“I’m not a mage.” Dalish huffs, turning away from the duo and quickly walking ahead to avoid talking anymore. 

The forward camp is full of unwelcoming states and jeering looks that have Varric tensing. There’s a few corpses laid out, their identities covered by pale tarps as soldiers rush about. 

It’s a wonder how fast the Left and Right Hand of the Divine had assembled some semblance of order and command in the wake of the explosion, one that has him wondering how Kirkwall would’ve gone if they had someone like them in Hawke’s group. Probably more murder (Leliana) or another righteous friend for Aveline (Cassandra), but ultimately a better time. Maybe. 

“We must prepare the soldiers!” Leliana assesses the man in front of her cooly, watching him sputter as she takes control. 

“We will do no such thing!” The man protested, his face as red as the color on his chantry robes. 

Leliana’s eyes hardened, gesturing with one hand to Dalish. “The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes! It’s our only chance.”

“You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility.” Roderick snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _I_ have caused enough trouble?” The Left Hand of the Divine says, aghast. Varric shifts uncomfortably, his steps almost faltering at the dark look on Leliana’s face. She was a scary woman, he knew that enough from the time Seeker had tracked him down and dragged him to Haven demanding Hawke’s whereabouts.

In retrospect, it was almost offensive in how the Seeker thought he would cave on his friend’s location. Varric prided himself on being a good companion, and if there was anyone who needed companionship, it was the Ferelden refugee who stirred up more trouble in the span of two minutes than anyone else was capable of doing in a year. (Not to mention, Choir-Boy would skewer him for ratting out his wife.)

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy–haven’t you all done enough already?”

“You’re not in command here!” Leliana all-but snarls, blue eyes glinting dangerously.

“Enough!” The man sliced his hand in a downward motion. “I will not have it!”

Alma takes a step forward, her hands clasped in front of her as she surveys the two. “Might we have more pressing problems?”

The both of them jerk away from each other, turning to the newcomer with twin expressions that have Varric trying his hardest not to laugh. Their eyes go wide, heads tilting up before they registered _gold_ skin and pointed ears. 

“Wh-What in the _Maker—”_

Leliana, for her part, schools her features into fine indifference, but he sees the glimmer of intrigue in her eyes. Their new friends would definitely be getting interrogated after things settled into some sort of semblance of calm.

The golden elf raises an unamused brow. “There’s a hole in the sky and people like you see it fit to argue. Grabbing clout during inopportune moments may seem like a good idea, but I would advise that once peace is secured, you become little more than a petty tyrant.”

The chantry-robed man sputters, his face turning steadily red by the moment as Alma fixes him with a look that is not too dissimilar to the one Hawke would wear when Aveline or Rivani started their childish arguments. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you—”

“‘Order me?’” Cassandra stepped forward with a scowl, looming over the Chancellor. “You are a glorified clerk! A _bureaucrat_!”

He stepped back, hands dusting off the front of his robes with a nervous look shot to Alma. Despite the look, his lips pull up into a disgusted sneer. “And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“Enough!” Dalish glares, arms crossed over his front as he pushes himself in front of Cassandra. “Closing the Breach is a more pressing issue than your petty _shem_ politics.”

The Chancellor bristles, his mouth open to give some sort of scathing retort before Leliana waves a hand. “The prisoner is right. We have more pressing issues than this.”

There's a pause as everyone tilts their head up to look at the green sky. To think that the Fade was _right there—_ Varric shuddered, turning his gaze over to the soldiers limping into the gates. There's a good handful of them pretending to look like they weren't listening in and failing. 

Finally, the man seems to settle, a great sigh heaving from his form. “Call a retreat. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can hold position as long as needed to come to a decision,” Alma speaks up, her one good eye steady as she looks not at the Chancellor, but over his shoulder to Leliana. Good to see that there was someone else with enough perceptiveness to see who _really_ ran the show.

“That won’t be necessary. We can go through the mountains while we use our forces as a distraction.” Leliana replies. 

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path, it’s too risky.” Cassandra refutes. 

The Chancellor steps in, “Listen to me. Abandon this plan before more lives are lost.”

Dalish hisses, the mark on his hand crackling ominously in time to the Breach’s pulsation. There’s a stillness that settles over the forward camp as heads turn up to the Breach like deers caught in the path of a wagon. Solas shoulders past Varric, the elf’s eyes zeroing in on Dalish’s mark. 

Cassandra swivels her head to the prisoner, a hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “How do _you_ think we should proceed?”

He blinks at her, blue eyes almost disbelieving as his face pulls into a sneer. “You’re asking for _my_ opinion?”

“You have the mark.” Solas doesn’t flinch despite the muted hiss Dalish sends him. A ‘true’ Dalish elf if there ever was one, untrusting of anyone without a pattern of vallaslin across their face or a clan name at their back.

“And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…” The Seeker trails off, her eyes going back up to that gaping maw ripped into the Fade from the physical world. 

Dalish considers for a moment, his lips setting into a purse as his unmarked hand encircles the wrist of his marked one in some sort of motion Varric can’t identify as. A comforting motion, perhaps? 

“I say we charge.” 

Leliana’s eyes shutter close, her head turning away from the group. It would be a sacrifice of her men, but Varric could understand the reasoning. There was no point in taking the long way around and helping a squad that most likely be dead. A waste of time that could be geared towards stabilizing the Breach. 

Dalish looks over the group cooly. “I won’t survive enough long enough for your trial. Whatever happens, happens now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small filler chapter before we really get into interesting things. I'll be sure to add stuff in the tags, but this story will have a lot of lore mentions both in Elder Scrolls and Dragon Age lore. Thank you all for your guys' love for this story, but please don't expect every chapter length to be like the first! I honestly got carried away with Chapter !, and writing beginnings always seems to be my strongest part but thats probably because I used to do primarily one-shots. 
> 
> A lot of this chapter is mainly just game-dialogue and getting another view on our Nirnian-Native pair, along with getting a feel on the future Inky's personality. Hint: He will be the most Dalish to ever Dalish. Also! Almaliriel isn't actually super tall, shes a bit on the shorter side for Altmer (kind of insinuated in Chapter one, being only two to three inches over Teldryn) and just barely reaches 6'2. Qunari in my head reach around 6'2 - 6'6 for females and 6'5 - 7'3 for males so...
> 
> Next chapter is already 1/4 of the way done and will be back into Almaliriel's POV! There we will get to meet more of the characters and find out Inky's name.


	3. Simple (or Complicated) Conversations and Realizations

I tilted my head up at the ‘chantry’, noting the architecture with a tired gaze. It was a mix of Breton architecture in the roof design, the rest mimicking more of an Imperial design with it’s strong-stacked white stones denoting purity and stained windows. Despite its name, there was little other similarity to the chantries that presided in Tamriel. 

We had been stripped of our belongings when we had reached Haven, our goodwill out of the window since we were suspects of whatever ravaged the sky. I could understand, given the fact that they had lost some sort of major holy figure and were dealing with what looked to be an Oblivion Gate (judging by everyone else’s reaction and how the mark was on the... _ elf’s _ hand, it wasn’t an Oblivion Gate, but rather something else entirely) and so caution was to be expected. 

Still.

I didn’t expect to be stripped of  _ everything,  _ though. It was only a small mercy that I managed to save Teldryn of the same fate, no doubt his Dunmeri looks would have us labeled as ‘strange’ at the best and ‘demons’ at the worst. The darkest skin tone I had seen belonged to someone who looked like a Redguard, but there were no variety of racial differences other than the... _ elves _ ...being much, much smaller with pointed ears and their strange race of what they called ‘ dwarves’ being squat and stockily-built humans. At least that’s what I was convinced they were. There  _ had  _ to be a divergence of one race somewhere, much like how men and mer descended from the Ehlnofey. 

“Stop dallying.” The guard drawled, pushing me forward with a rough hand. Teldryn tenses, his hand flying to where his sword would be, but meeting air. I shake my head at him, our eyes meeting for a moment before swinging away to look at the interior of the building around us. It would be better for the both of us (mainly him) if we kept his looks under wraps, even if it had to go under the cost of what was basically playing out to be a hostage situation. 

The chantry is warm inside, braziers burning bright as women in red and white robes clump in groups around them. We draw looks, mainly me with my outlandish looks as the guard guides us to the dungeon. The red-haired woman I assume to be the Spy Mistress is already there, blue eyes calculating as she waves off the guard.

“Please, take a seat.” She gestures to the chair across from her, Teldryn practically hovering over my footsteps as I seat myself. The table is short, my knees hitting the underside to which the woman raises a brow at. 

The door closes behind the guard as her hands settle on the table in front. Her posture is of a woman who knows too many things and finds too many things, a woman of high intrigue and skill, who was aware of her own limits and capabilities. In the flickering firelight of the dungeon, the cowl over her head only made her seem more ominous.

“You must be aware of how suspicious your appearance may be.” the Spy Mistress begins. Her lilting accent is one of a Breton’s, my own brow raising in curiosity. 

I lean back in my chair, Teldryn’s armor a comforting feeling as my head touches the hard chestplate of chitin. “ _ Of course, _ ” I reply easily, Bretic leaving my mouth in an easy rush. It was the only human language my parents had approved of me learning besides Cyrodiilic and Tamriel Common. “ _ I would be understandably suspicious as well, given the circumstances.” _

Her brow’s raise, a small amused quirk coming to her lips. “I would ask where you have learned Orleasian, but that dialect is not one I am familiar with.”

“My apologies,” I say, switching back to Common. Interesting how one language would be shared through worlds but not another. Research would have to be done. “Your accent is similar to a place I am from.”

She leans forward in interest. “And where would that be?”

“Tamriel. Nirn. Obviously not on this plane or realm of existence if my looks are drawing attention.” I gesture to myself, golden skin catching in the torchlight. Not to mention, the architecture was all different. Even places within provinces had their fair share of variation, but there was always a common point. In Cyrodiil it was the conglomerate mix of Nibenese, Akaviri, and Colovian influence under pointed roofs. In Skyrim it was the roughly-carved stones that stood strong despite the harshness of the weather. In Alinor it was how most things were built upwards, spires pointing up in a hope that one day they may reach the sky and perhaps beg to Auri-El for our immortality back. 

The Spy Mistress raises a hand, a scout stepping out from the shadows and bowing to her. 

“Clear the room.”

“Right away, Lady Nightingale.” 

She turns back to me. “You’ve raised an interesting point.”

“I’ve presented my theory.” I state, folding my hands in my lap. The action is familiar, along with my tone and words, almost reminding me on how I would have to wheedle Urag gro-Shub to allow a few students to check out the rarer tomes and books for study.

The dungeon air is cool on my skin, my bare arms rising in little goosebumps that freckle across my arms.

Her head tilts, red hair stark against the dark fabric of her cowl. She is a pretty woman, smooth pale skin and eye-catching coloring that would have perhaps have even a few Alinor-born Altmer interested enough to keep her as a mistress or young dalliance. 

“And what if this theory is wrong?” Her voice is even as the shadows from the torchlight flicker across her skin like the gentler waves that pull in from the Coral Coast along the southern shores of Alinor. 

_ (Perhaps I should visit home when this is all over.) _

“I have studied magick enough in my extensive life that it is a reasonable hypothesis to think that whatever magick was released to cause that... _ Breach _ ...theoretically pulled in myself and my companion through perhaps a smaller rift of some sort.” Her eyes flicker to Teldryn before back to me. 

“And what evidence would you have to base this on?”

Neloth of course. Neloth and his fantastical experiments that equal parts interested me and deterred me from delving in too far with experimental magick, leaving me content with more esoteric and ancient spells that fell out of use. 

I lean forward, ignoring the minute way she tenses, jaw tight as I stare at her evenly. “If you are one to confide in, I would give my trust to you freely. The point is, my partner and I are unknowns; threats and possible suspects. My... _ evidence _ could be used against me, despite my candor on the matter.”

She raises a brow. “That does not sound as if you are convincing me of your innocence.”

“I am not. But I am also aware that  _ my _ looks are alien to you and I can guarantee that Teldryn is as well.”

She leans back, rocking in her chair as she eyes both me and my husband. Her poker face holds, speaking of some sort of training in the way her eyes go blank and the muscles in her cheek don’t bite. I ignore the beating of my heart as I will myself to calm. There was no need for panic yet.

I could kill her if I needed to. I could kill her and escape before the alarms could be raised, Teldryn in tow and closing the Breach/Oblivion Gate be damned. I had fought with worse odds and had come out of it. 

If I could live this long while being a plaything to both Aedra and Daedra alike, I could handle a mortal woman. 

“Show me.”

“Pardon?” There’s surprise on my face, I know it in the way that my voice rises an octave in disbelief and even though Teldryn is behind me and cannot possibly see the full side of my face, I know he notices that I let the mask of my choosing slip at her brazen request. Request because it would be foolish to ever truly demand something from someone like myself—it simply spoke in how I enunciated my words and held myself that my bearings were not common-born. 

In the pause that settles in the room like a blanket over a brazier before a certain eruption of flames akin to the shock and anger building up to question under what authority she demanded, a weight resting on my shoulder stills both me and my tongue. Teldryn. 

His hand squeezes my shoulders as the redhead speaks her next words cooly, direct and if not a little curious in the way her eyes seem to glitter in the dim light. 

“Show me what is under that helm and I will release the two of you as suspects.” 

There’s a pause, my eyes meeting hers as the two of us become locked in a wordless staring contest.  _ It would be so easy— _

Teldryn shifts behind me, his hand leaving my shoulder and the loss of it pulling me from Lady Nightingale’s eyes to twist my head around to look at him incredulously. His hands go to his helmet, the chitin pulled off to reveal typical Dunmeri features.

In the dimness of the dungeon and the flickering of the torchlight, he must look even more otherworldly to the woman than I see him. Dark gray skin pulled over sharp merish features, a sly tattoo working its way over those merish features and curving boldly before resting a scant fingernail width above his dark eyebrows. 

  
  


Red eyes slant towards me, as if reading my thoughts at Lady Nightingale’s barely covered gasp that echoes louder in the complete silence of shock. A sardonic smirk curls at the corners of his lips before it fades. He turns his eyes to look over my features, dragging them slowly over my face before meeting his own with the spymistress. 

“I don’t think there are many who look quite like me here, serah.” 

The woman exhales sharply, the barest movement of her mouth giving the slack-jawed awe we usually expect from those who were not acquainted with mer quickly closing shut. That awe is quickly replaced with undisturbed indifference, her shock bridled at Teldryn’s unfettered boldness as he enhances his Dunmeri accent for better effect. 

The look she wore was more common in the more rural settlements in Skyrim, where villages or towns consisted little more than two or three families, having no significance and no name on the maps provided by many general shops and friendly Khajiiti caravans. Many of the common folk of Skyrim didn’t see much of the other races besides their own of men, unless they were veterans of the Great War. even then, Great War veterans were becoming less and less in number as years passed. 

Finally, she seems to come into her own, blinking rapidly as if Teldryn was the trick of smoke-and-mirrors.. “What  _ are _ you?”

“A Dunmer.” Teldryn raises a brow, red eyes practically dancing with amusement. “You humans call my kind Dark Elves.”

It’s almost amusing the way her eyes meet mine for some sort of confirmation. Teldryn could’ve told the spymistress he was as human as the rest of those around their ‘chantry’ despite his appearance saying otherwise, and she would only nod and gamely agree. “Historically very interesting people.”

Her brows settle, resting once again as she seems to reign in whatever calm emotions she could pull up and drape over herself as she addresses me evenly. “And you? I won’t play blind and pretend I have seen an...elf such as yourself in looks. His own lead credence to the fact that you both are not from here.”

Teldryn scoffs behind me, my hand darting back in an attempt to pinch him in the ribs despite the ineffectiveness of it with his armor shielding him. It was natural to be proud of your heritage when you were mer,  _ especially  _ if you were Altmeri. Maormer were next, but I had little pleasure in meeting one, regarding the animosity our kind held with one another. 

“I am an Altmer. A High Elf, to you humans. My kind are well-regarded as one of the most intelligent and longest lived on Nirn.” There’s a pride to my words that I never managed to shake despite the awareness of the more deplorable acts that my brethren had committed. I was proud of our history, my family history, where the blood in my veins were traced back into snaking vines to my Venerated Ancestors being Eruvarin of Sun’s Dusk of whom we took his name as our own and Hymemi of the Cliff Vines. 

Thousands of years of history recorded dutifully by a family historian, who were more oft than not a part of the same bloodline. It was a grand honor to be named as the family historian, the only outsiders ever hoping to attain a post as one being those adopted into the family. There was a time when I had dreamed of pouring over pages and pages of family breeding and the intimate lives of my ancestors. 

“And how old are you?” She asks, her eyes boring into mine as if she could find the answer straight from the look in my eyes. A common question for mer when faced with our shorter lived counterparts. 

“Two-hundred and fifty-three,” Teldryn supplies, his voice breaking our staring contest as I feel the press of his armor as he leans over my chair back. A finger brushes against my hair, curling around a loose piece with a soft tug that has my lips pulling up into a soft smile. “A bit old for the average mer of my kind, but I’m told that all depends on breeding and magicka.” 

(“It  _ does _ , Teldryn.”

“Of course, serah.” )

The redhead boggles for a moment, the whites of her eyes visible as they widen even across the length of the table separating us that I almost laugh. There’s a jape to be done here, her eyes then dragging to me with disbelief and curiosity swimming brightly.

I let the smile on my face lean into something more akin to a smirk. “Oh. Two-hundred-thirty-one. Most in my family reach a millenia if they feel prompted to. My grandmother is near her eight-hundred-seventieth year; of course this all depends on your magicka and breeding. Most of my station have similar life spans. It’s only normal.”

The tone I take is rather bland, trivial even, despite the fact that most men do not live past the age of fifty—ninety if they are noble. A poor man's thirty was a rich man’s fifty, after all. Unless you were of Breton descent, then there were other factors to integrate and calculate which took too much time and math to count just about  _ how  _ much Altmeri blood there was left. Still. Accounting the shock that Lady Nightingale shows is enough for me to formulate a hesitant theory on this realm’s mer perhaps having shorter lifespans. 

“You must be joking.” Is her reply, her Breton-esque accent thicker than it was a few scant moments ago before the reveal of our ages. 

“I rarely do,” I reply, settling my hands on top of the table that separates us with ease. It’s almost comical, how humans always react to the longer lifespan of mer. It was one thing knowing that there was a race that lived much,  _ much  _ longer than your own, but the confirmation was what always amazed them. It was as if they were children beholding a night sky untouched by city lanterns for the first time. “Jests can be taken as fact with the wrong people.  _ I _ deal in only the truth, as my scholarly duty demands.”

She stares at us a while more, as if trying to decode and figure out if we were lying somehow. The time stretches on, Teldryn shifting from foot to foot, his armor creaking at the slight movements. They would have to get their hand on some sort of oil to upkeep the chitin. Hopefully there would be some sort of equivalent of creep cluster and chaurus eggs to create the mixture. Chitin armor was notoriously demanding with upkeep. 

Finally, Lady Nightingale leans back, her shoulders relaxing by a fraction and her boots scraping on the floor as she places one leg over the other. Her guard is still up—any spymistress worth their void salt wouldn’t relax so easily in the presence of unknowns—but she seems more amiable than when we were escorted down into the dungeons. 

“If we are to be working together then I suppose introductions are in order.” 

I raise a brow. There was little chance that the woman  _ didn’t  _ know their names, but I could recognize an olive branch when it was offered. 

“Almaliriel Eruvarin. This is my husband, Teldryn Sero.” 

Teldryn shifts, presumably nodding his head to her. “Serah.”

If the strangeness of our names surprise her, she doesn’t show it, her face once again a cool mask of serenity. She tilts her head in response to Teldryn’s nod, an almost-pleased look flitting across the dark blues of her eyes. “A pleasure, then. I am Leliana.”

“A pleasure,” I echo. “I hope that we can come to an easy arrangement in all of this.”

* * *

  
  


We leave the chantry in an uneasy truce with the spymistress. I’m not so foolish to think that we would be left off the hook so easily, but there are no scouts or guards to tail our steps, just curious faces of people who have never seen what one of Altmeri descent looks like and a nervous looking maid who leads us to our new quarters. There are others here with pointed ears, their skin as flush as the average Imperials. Mer of some sort for this realm, but not of ours.

Idly, I wonder if they have a pantheon. Civilized society as dictated by Archmage Concordia of the Mages’ Guild in the Third Era had written a whole treatise on what made a civilized society, with religion being the forefront. It was an interesting read, one that sat on my bookshelf in Proudspire Manor. 

The cabin that they assign us is small, but of sturdy design that reminds me more of the homes in Falkreath. I turn to the maid, fishing out my coin purse and handing over a few septims with a polite smile. “I know my currency may not match yours, but gold is universal, from what I have seen.”

The maid’s eyes seem to boggle at the four gold coins, wide eyes turning towards me as she thrusts her hand back towards me. “Th-this is too much, Mistress! I’ll be fine with no pay, honest, I just showed yous to your cabin that’s all.”

“And it was helpful. I assume whatever bags that were taken from us once we entered the town are in here?” 

She nods. “Yes, Mistress. I placed them there myself, I did.” 

“There. Then you deserve my payment.”

Her hand retracts, clutching the coins to her chest as if I would change my mind and snatch it away. She was much too-thin for a servant, with wide eyes that were sunken into her face and her pointed ears that jarringly made her head seem smaller. Perhaps in the chaos of the Gate—the Breach—many had lost their masters or found themselves without work. Chaos always opened up more holes in things like that. 

I watch her bow clumsily as she bounds off, turning back to Teldryn who has laid a gloved hand on the door. 

“Well?”

“Oh, nothing serah. Just watching.” His dry tone makes me roll my eyes and I shoulder past him to open the cabin door. “Savior of Tamriel and now to servants.”

The cabin isn’t warm, but there's a stack of dry firewood right when you open the door on my right. The walls are largely bare except for a few rabbit furs nailed onto the wall. It’s small, but its cozy and I take note of the number of candles and the small brazier in the corner that is to make up for a lack of a fireplace. 

I scoff. “Please, a Savior of Servants? My great-grandsire would be rolling in his grave.”

Teldryn hums, closing the door behind us and the cold mountainous air of the outside contenting itself with whistling underneath the door. He steps further into the cabin, chitinous helmet turning this way and that as he noted every nook and cranny, even crouching to look under the rickety-looking beds that would definitely not fit my whole body. 

“There’s no magic signature here, aure.” I crouch down by my bag, the familiar tingle of magic washing over me before I begin to root through my things for anything missing. Not that there would be. I had warded against thieves and nosy-bodies the moment I learned the magic for it. As friendly as Valenwood Bosmeri were, that didn’t stop them from grabbing a tincture or a few septims from your pack when you weren’t looking.

“You can never be too careful.” Comes Teldryn’s reply as he begins unbuckling his scabbard, dropping the blade onto one of the beds. “We’ll need to push these together.”

I palm a few soul gems, idly wondering if they would still work in this realm. “My feet are going to go over the edge.”

The Soul Cairn was a realm of Oblivion, but with the way my theory was coming together, Neloth had most likely landed us outside of Aurbis. 

That was a terrifying thought.

I placed the soul gems back, neatly organizing my pack once again with the satisfaction that nothing was taken. I didn’t doubt my spellcasting, but with so many unknowns, you could never be so sure. 

“Are you going to ward the cabin?” 

I turn my head over to my husband, raising a brow as he pulls off his helmet, red eyes meeting my own steadily. “When do I not ward our places of sleep?”

He shrugs, turning away as he begins to unbuckle his own armor, “You didn’t when we were at the Netch.” 

“That’s because Geldis forbade me from doing so when I almost pulverized Drovas. You were there, aure.” 

I watch as he rolls his shoulders, the edges of an amused smirk turning away from me as he bends to unclasp the chitin armor from his legs. “Was I? I think I would remember a scenario such as that if I was with you.”

“It wasn’t a scenario because it was  _ true _ . You barely remember what you ate for breakfast last week. Don’t be such a fool.”

Teldryn barks a laugh, muttering something in Dumeri before breaking off into chuckles, shaking his head amusedly. “How my wife wounds me so.” 

His warm hands roll over the long sleeves of my robe, a hand smoothing up to rest on my cheek and it prompts me to dip my head down and meet his uncovered lips with a kiss that has me curling my toes, no matter how simple. Such a fool I was, to be moved so simply like an adolescent mer by a simple kiss. Love really did make one lose their senses. 

I pull away, meeting his eyes steadily as the corners of my eyes crinkle in a smile as I step away. “I’ll see if I can find us some fresh food and drink. We should save our own.”

Teldryn sighs but waves me off with a dark hand, pushing at my chest lightly as I call up a bit of lightning to teasingly zap at his fingertips. “Swot.” He grumbles, broad shoulders shaking in amusement.

I make sure to quickly close the door behind me, my boots pressing over the packed snow firmly. There’s already the pick up of whispers and exclamations and I even spot a few children peeking from behind a stack of munitions, shrieking as I make eye contact with them. They dive behind the stack and I can’t help but chuckle at it, a soft memory tugging at my mind at their action.

My children had been much the same when they were around that age, mischievous in the imaginary games they played and the laughter they conjured between them. ‘Silly netchlings’ as Teldryn liked to bite out, despite the softness in his voice as Alesan would clamber over him with strong limbs and a grin that was empty of their front teeth. 

I follow the most well-worn path other than the one that leads up to the chantry, because besides prayer, food was always a close second when it came to the priorities of any sane being. It’s easy to ignore the stares and whispers that follow in my wake, for I had done the same thing decades ago when threats were more pressing and an Almaliriel-shaped hole was weeping to be filled. 

_ (I could still feel it. The tear in my gloves and the biting cold that nipped at my exposed skin, only the warmth of my magick crackling in hand as it thrummed through my being and tore the next nameless man in two. The clang of steel, the roar of the soldiers around her who were too tired, too eager, too willing—I put down a mad bear. I put down a mad bear, nothing more. Mother and Father would be so proud,  _ _ Elsynia  _ _ would be—) _

I exhaled, my breath curling up visibly as I looked over the rows of houses and hastily set-up market stands with merchants that were sure to leave by the next day or two. Many of them did not seem as well-prepared as they should be for the mountainous air, but to be fair, neither were Teldryn and I. I just had the luck of calling Skyrim my home for the past two decades.

“Alma!” 

I turn, eyes squinting over the sheen of sunlight that reflected harshly on the white of the snow, catching sight of one of this world’s dwarves. This was the one that had been friendly on that mountain pass as they fought their way to the camp. 

“Well,” I begin, making my way over to the small campfire the dwarf stands idly by. Well, perhaps not as idle as I thought, a book laid open on the log behind him with a quill slotted into the open spine. “It is certainly a delight to see a familiar face.”

The dwarf smiles, entirely much too small in height. Was there some sort of benefit that their lack of height provided them as a race? Dwemer were ‘dwarves’, yes, but they were not as small as the Bosmeri who needed their height so they could flit from branch to branch like little birds in their home province. The Dwemer were of a respectable height, perhaps on the shorter side of Altmeri.

“I wouldn’t say familiar, given we separated when Prickly wanted to rush forward.” 

“Prickly?” 

He chuffs a laugh, “Can’t seem to name him yet and he hasn’t yet given up his name. Probably some sort of Dalish thing I’m sure, but nicknames are never unwelcome, I find.” 

I raise a brow, “ _ Well _ . Alma is all the nickname I need, if you find yourself wanting to bestow me a new one.” 

“Oh,” He says, the grin from his laugh not leaving his face as she shifts on his feet and looks somewhere over to the side. “I think we’ll get along splendidly,  _ Graces.” _

“Graces?” I give the small man a look over, his grin growing even wider at the action. 

“Y’know, because of how...courtly you are. Graces and all.” His fingers twitch, tapping the book holstered on his hip once. A habitual action, given the way his body doesn’t tense or jolt with the movement. “Varric Tethras, occasional storyteller and rouge.”

“Well. I’m sure my mother would be glad to hear that my bearing has such an impression to dignify a name for it.” Mother would be scandalled at moreso at the fact that I was bestowed such a simple nickname, but she had surely heard a good amount of my monikers at this point from letters and slow-travelling news that I did not think that she would be affected by such things at this point. 

I dip my head towards him, hands folding in front of me, directly over my belly-button in traditional greeting. “Almaliriel Eruvarin—although I have introduced myself—a mer with one-too-many titles.” 

There’s a blatant flash of intrigue that shows in Varric’s eyes, but the dwarf chuckles. He is charming, careful with his words in a way that reminded me of Lucia. My adoptive daughter had taken both her diplomacy and intrigue lessons like a fish to water, turning into a political nightmare for those not associated with our family. 

“Mer?” 

“Yes. Elf in the Men’s tongues, but as the ones here seem to differ greatly in looks and perhaps biology, it would be too confusing to label me as such.” How long had it been since I had gone over racial phylogeny with my students? There had been a three-day lecture stemming from it after Apprentice Janica had openly wondered why the mer students excelled more than the human ones. 

(Needless to say, there had been quite a number of consented testing on one another based on their race to the point that the faculty and myself had to rule that consented testing was no longer allowed without the Archmage’s express approval. Given the whole mess of Brelyna when I was an Associate within the College, it was better off passing the rule.)

“You’re talking like you’re not from here, Graces.” Varric chuckles, though with the way he looks me over, he seems to answer his own question. 

“Tamriel is quite a bit away from here. Discordant magic tends to be a common factor in odd situations.” I drawl, my gaze flickering away from Varric’s curious face and to the scout that stands a scant few meters downwind, helping a woman load crates into her wagon. The Nightingale was efficient, keeping the reminder of being watched while allowing both Teldryn and I freedom around Haven. 

“Is Tamriel across the sea?” 

_ Definitely not, _ given the fact that magic doesn’t flow as freely here as it does back home, but that probably had to do with the giant Oblivion Gate/Breach that glowed ominously above. There was a jarring sharpness whenever I pulled upon my magicka, extra focus being required in order to cast a simple spell. It was uncomfortable, of course, but in strange situations, you worked with what you were given.

Despite living on an island, Altmeri weren’t inclined to sea-faring like our Maormeri cousins. Magic was where we excelled, along with letting others do all the little parts so we didn’t have to—much like Neloth—so maps of places outside Tamriel were hard to come by. Vague geographical locations passed down by our ancestors were what we went by, or theories on our lost homelands and where they must’ve been before settling in Tamriel.

There were still two moons in the sky, though I was sure that they were not Lorkhan’s severed corpse of Masser and Secunda, as both size and position were off. Secunda always hung by Masser like a lost shadow. Here, the moons were smaller, weak and far away in the daylit sky.

I hum. “Perhaps we should finish our conversation another time. Is there a tavern or food stand nearby?” 

He tilts his head towards me. “I’ll hold you to that, Graces. And of course! Flissa makes the best meat and gravy outside of Starkhaven—never been to Starkhaven, but some of the recruits have been swearing by it. I’ll come with you, eating with company is always better, eh?”

I shorten my strides, quirking a brow at him. “I was planning to just grab a meal and take it back to my cabin, though we can have a quick drink.”

* * *

  
  


Teldryn is tucked into bed by the time I come back, clumsily kicking off my boots as I try to balance the basket of food in my arms. 

“Fun night?” He drawls, red eyes almost glowing in the low light. There’s a book in his hands, gold lettering shining in the dim cabin. 

I hum, the taste of brandy on my tongue having gone sour the longer I went without water. The alcohol here was weaker, more watered down in order to have enough for all the refugees and soldiers that came pouring into Haven. Varric, as I learned during our rather amiable time together, was not a refugee or soldier, but rather an unwilling tag-along (prisoner) who was dragged here for the whereabouts of a rather important friend.

“It was good enough. The meals are similar to the ones in Bruma.” I pass the basket over to him as he sets the book down on the covers and comes over. His hands are warm as they brush over mine and I give him a close-lipped smile as he flips open the linen cover over the basket. “Only paid a septim for all of that, but Varric informed me that their coinage is much more different than what I have.” 

“Varric?” Teldryn sets the basket down on a small side table, digging through the contents as I lock the door with a wave of my hand, runes glowing brightly on the wood before fading into a low shimmer. 

“One of their dwarven people, he was in the first group we met—oh, make sure to grab some salt from our packs, they have little by way of seasoning here.” 

I watch as he nods, bowl in hand as he goes over to crouch and rifle through our bags. “And the spymistress?” 

“Lady Leliana. I’ve been informed that she was the left hand of the Divine—their spiritual leader, much like the Khajiiti Mane, though they aren’t borne and are rather  _ voted  _ for—so she is rather important, much like that Imperial-looking woman.” 

Teldryn sets his bowl of food down gingerly on the floor, pulling out one of my many alchemist pouches, a small ‘humph’ coming from him as he sprinkles a generous amount of salt over his meal. “Did you pack any fire salts?” 

I huff, “Of course I did. What sort of alchemist would I be if I didn’t have  _ fire salts?” _

“You’re the one that broke an alembic making a Cure Disease potion.” He shugs, picking up his food and stirring it with a spoon. “Not just any alembic, but a  _ stalhrim  _ alembic. Didn’t even have the grace to tell Baldor about it, either.”

I glare, flicking my hand at him as sparks of lightning dance between my fingers, eyes narrowing as he dances around the few streaks that arc towards him, a teasing smile on his dark face.    
  


That alembic had been a rather priceless gift from Baldor Iron-Shaper, the Skaal blacksmith having toiled on it for a whole year after I had rid Solstheim of Miraak’s influence. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the alembic broke during my first use of it, the enchanted ice not mixing well with whatever magick it held along with the latent magick of certain alchemic ingredients that became active once mixed together. 

Even then, I had hoped that the alembic could’ve worked. Stalhrim was notoriously rare outside of Skaal Village and the collection of it I had sitting at home would be able to fund a new manse to be built in the Nobles District of Imperial City. It would’ve made a priceless heirloom to pass on to future generations from Teldryn’s and I’s line. 

“Tastes like echartere.” He comments, scooping up another mouthful and chewing with his brows furrowed. “Yeah. Definitely echartere.”

“Since when have you eaten echartere?” Echartere are notoriously ornery creatures, not afraid to chase away sabre cats and able to send shockwaves through the ground when used in battle. Thankfully, they only were ever found in the Wrothgarian Mountains, and despite their natural skill in finding snow truffles, I was content enough to never ever stumble upon one. It was a given that only orcs were ever able to successfully tame them.

“I  _ did  _ have a life before coming into your service, serah.” He points his spoon at me, brows raised. “Besides, you never asked.”

“I  _ always  _ ask.” 

Teldryn shrugs. “Must have forgotten.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Westover has been depressed = lack of updates. :(


End file.
